Turnabout
by Rashka the Demon
Summary: Buffy takes comfort in Spike, but in doing so takes more than she realizes. Early season 7, mature content, dark.


**Setting**: Early season 7, any time between "Beneath You" and "Him", aka the CrazyBasementSouledSpike period.

**Rated**: M for MATURE

**Written**: March 19th, 2003

**Summary**: Buffy takes comfort in Spike, but in doing so takes more than she realizes.

**Notes**: This was originally written in response to Wisteria's "Make Smut, Not War" challenge for LiveJournal Buffy writers. This was my first NC-17 fic, previously posted at . The concept is dark, not at all fluffy.

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**Turnabout**

His hands roamed over her hips as she rocked forward, and Buffy threw her head back to stare starry-eyed at the ceiling. God, this was perfect—everything she needed was here, in the tips of his fingers and the art of his tongue. This was her coming-home. To have him again—inside her, around her, above or below it didn't matter because he was _there_, cock and chest and arms and neck, waiting on her as only Spike could.

Wandering lonely halls had led her to him again, but he was different from the first moment. He was nervous and apologetic, but flirty too. His eyes were clear and his walk made her heart race again, like the day he'd walked into her house and _Spike_ was back, cool and focused and holding her torch. When he'd touched her face tonight she'd broken, pushing him down and asking for _that thing_, the thing that had hurt them so much but could make everything right again, because she really wanted him, and he had a soul, and it was ok now.

_I need you. _

_Ok._

His eyes were the same blue as the last time she'd twisted down him onto the cement, forced him to talk while they touched. The basement was dirty and Spike was dirty but she remembered what dirty felt like. She knew with every inhalation that this could be their world again, fading to familiar with kisses and caresses. Crates were mausoleums, cabinets were gravestones, the shreds of a blanket rubbed like crabgrass under her knees as she worked his zipper and he made a timid joke about timing. She'd giggled a bit, smiled for him and started to reply but then he was free, hard in her hands and her lips had other uses than talking.

Cool and long in her mouth, just like she remembered, and to have him moaning again, the best sort of moans, was all she needed in the world. Not long and he was pulling at her, bringing her forward and dodging her mouth to assault her neck. He lapped up her sweat and she sank onto him, too anxious to wait anymore.

Up and down her world spun; laugh and cry and scream blended together. This was her _place_, this was her _self_, this was what Buffy the Slayer wanted to live for. Spike squirmed and bucked beneath her, told her she was the sun and came when she squeezed. His hands wandered from her hips to her cunt and she was screaming too, fingers fisted into his chest while pushed and pulled until everything of his was hers and hers was his.

Downward she drifted, caressing his hair and his face. _Look at me_ she pleaded silently, and was rewarded with unblinking cerulean. "That was wonderful," she whispered into his cheek, smiling between butterfly kisses. "I missed you so much; I needed you so bad."

Spike smiled softly in return, and palms drifted to cup her face. Lips to forehead, to nose, and then blue met green and he grinned impishly. "Carrey-Ann danced the Maypole with the girls, and but I couldn't go talk to them." A sly wink, "T'wasn't proper, t'wasn't right, and boys go to hell for staring too long at white dresses."

A moment of slow creeping dread and Buffy jerked her face from Spike's palms as if acid had come between every place their bodies met. He grabbed at her shoulders and pulled her forward again, nose to nose.

"I've got a pocket full of posies for you, pretty warm girl, but you can't go back out in the dark. Hurts in the dark. Why are you crying?"

A strangled scream erupted from Buffy as she fumbled backwards, tearing easily away from her madman's soft hands. He watched her go and tears began for him too, just seeing hers. He leaped to his feet, naked thin, and demanded she stop because he didn't want to cry. She'd said it was wonderful, hadn't she? She said everything would be okay, that he was better. But she did nothing grab at clothes and trip over boxes in the dark, while the smell of sex and tears and fear and shame overwhelmed his tastes and thoughts till he could perceive nothing else.

Why, why? He'd done what she'd wanted; she was supposed to keep him warm and make it good again. But the girl was leaving, the girl was crying, the girl was finished there. And when he grabbed her hand, she looked at him, sobbed that **word**——the word of _tearing/screaming/white/pain/cold/stop/tile/need/screaming_——and begged his forgiveness.


End file.
